Forest Days: A Romance of Old Times

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXXVI.

In a dark small room, high up in the back part of one of the houses in the lower town of Nottingham, with the wall covered on one side by rough oak planking, and having on the other the sharp slope of the roof; on a wretched truckle bed, with a small table and a lamp beside it, lay the tall and powerful form of a wounded man, with languor in his eyes, and burning fever in his cheek.

On a stool at the other side sat Richard de Ashby, looking down upon him with a countenance which did not express much compassion, but on the contrary bore an angry and displeased look; and, while he gazed, his hand rested upon his dagger, with the fingers clutching, every now and then, at the hilt, as if with a strong inclination to terminate his companion's sufferings in the most speedy manner possible.

"It was madness and folly," he said--"I repeat, it was madness and folly to bring you here into the very midst of dangers, when I showed you clearly how to shape your course."

"We saw a party of horse upon the bridge, I tell you," replied Dighton, for he it was who lay there, with the punishment of one of his evil deeds upon him, "and could not find a ford. But, in the name of the fiend, do not stand here talking about what is done and over; let me have 'tendance of some kind. Send for a leech, or fetch one."

"A leech!" cried Richard de Ashby, "the man's mad! There is none but the one at the court to be found here. Would you have the whole story get abroad, and be put to death for the murder?"

"As well that, as lie and die here," answered Dighton. "Why I tell thee, Dickon, I feel as if there were a hot iron burning through me from my breast to my shoulder, and every throb of my heart seems to beat against it, and add to the fire. I must have some help, man!--If thou art not a devil, give we some water to drink. I am parched to death."

Richard de Ashby walked thoughtfully across the room, and brought him a cup of water, pausing once as he did so, to gaze upon the floor and meditate.

"I will, tell thee what, Dighton," he said, "thou shalt have 'tendance. Kate here, it seems, saw them bring thee in. She is a marvellous leech; and when I was wounded up by Hereford at the time of the Prince's escape, she was better than any surgeon to me. She shall look to thy wound; but mind you trust her not with a word of how you got it; for a woman's tongue is ever a false guardian, and hers is not more to be depended on than the rest."

"Well," answered the man, discontentedly, "anything's better than to lie here in misery, with nobody to say a word to; I dare say you would as soon see me die as live."

"No," replied Richard de Ashby, with a bitter smile, "I should not know what to do with the corpse."

"I thought so," said Dighton, "for I expected every minute, just now, that your dagger would come out of the sheath. But I have strength enough still left, Dickon, to dash your brains out against the wall, or to strangle you between my thumbs, as men do a partridge; and I do not intend to die yet, I can tell you. But come, send this girl quick; and bid her bring some healing salve with her. There is a quack-salver lives at the top of the high street; he will give her some simples to soften the wound and to take out the fire."

"I will see to it--I will see to it," replied Richard de Ashby, "and send her to you presently. I cannot visit you again to-night, for I must away to the castle, but to-morrow I will come to you."

Thus saying, he quitted the wretched room, and closed the door after him. The wounded man heard the key turn in the lock, and murmured to himself--"The scoundrel! to leave me here a whole night and day without help or 'tendance; but if I get better, I'll pay him for his care--I'll break his neck, or bring him to the gallows. I surely shall live--I have been wounded often before, and have always recovered,--but I never felt anything like this, and my heart seems to fail me. I saw worms and serpents round me last night, and the face of the girl I threw into the Thames up by the thicket,--it kept looking at me, blue and draggled as when she rose the last time. I heard the scream too!--Oh yes, I shall live--'tis nothing of a wound! I have seen men with great gashes--twice as large. Ha! there is some one coming!" and he started and listened as the lock was turned, and the door opened.

The step was that of a woman, and the moment after, Kate Greenly approached his bed-side. Her fair face was pale, her lips had lost their rosy red, her cheek had no longer the soft, round fulness of high health; and though her eye was as lustrous and as bright as ever, yet the light thereof was of a feverish, unsteady, restless kind. There was a sort of abstracted look, too, in them. It seemed as if some all-engrossing subject in her own heart called her thoughts continually back from external things, whenever she gave her mind to them for a moment.

Walking straight to the bed, and still holding the lamp in her hand, she gazed full and gravely upon Dighton's face; but the brain was evidently busy with other matters than that on which her eyes rested; and it was not till the wounded man exclaimed, impatiently--"Well, what do you stare at?" that she roused herself from her fit of abstraction.

"He has sent me," she said, "to tend some wounds you have received, but I can do you little good. The priest of our parish indeed gave me some small skill in surgery; but methinks 'tis more a physician for the soul than for the body that you want."

"That is no affair of thine," replied the man, sharply--"look to my wound, girl, and see if thou hast got any cooling thing that will take the fire out, for I burn, I burn!"

"Thou shalt burn worse hereafter," said Kate, sitting down by his bed-side; "but show me the hurt, though methinks 'tis of little avail."

"There," cried the man, tearing down the clothes, and exposing his brawny chest, "'tis nothing--a scratch--one may cover it with a finger; and yet how red it is around, and it burns inwardly, back to my very shoulder."

Kate stooped her head down, and held the lamp to the spot where the sword of the old Earl of Ashby had entered, and examined it attentively for a full minute. As the man had said, it was but a small and insignificant looking injury to overthrow the strength of that robust form, and lay those muscular limbs in prostrate misery upon a couch of sickness, as feeble as those of an infant. You might indeed have covered the actual spot with the point of a finger; but round about it for more than a hand's breadth on either side, was a space of a deep red colour, approaching to a bluish cast as it came near the wound. It was swollen; too, though not much, and one or two small white spots appeared in the midst of that fiery circle.

When she had finished her examination, she raised her eyes to the man's face, and gazed on it again, with a look of grave and solemn thought.

"Art thou in great pain?" she said.

"Have I not told you," he answered, impatiently--"it is hell."

"No," she replied, shaking her head, "no, 'tis nothing like hell, my friend. Thou mayest some time long to be back again there, on that bed, writhing under ten such wounds as this, rather than what thou shalt then suffer. But thou wilt be easier soon. Seest thou that small black spot upon the edge of the wound?"

"Ay," he answered, looking from the wound to her face with an inquiring glance--"what of that?--Will that give me ease?"

"Yes," she replied, "as it spreads.--Art thou a brave man? Dost thou fear death?"

"What do you mean, wench?" he cried, gazing eagerly in her face, "Speak out--you would drive me mad!"

"Nay," she replied, "I would call you back to reason. You have been mad all your life, as well as I, and many another!--Man, you are dying!"

"Dying!" he exclaimed, "dying!--I will not die! Send for the surgeon--he shall have gold to save me.--I will not--I cannot die!" and he raised himself upon his elbow, as if he would have risen to fly from the fate that awaited him.

He fell back again the moment after, however, with a groan; and then, looking anxiously in the girl's face, he said, "Oh, save me--I cannot die--I will not die in this way! Send for a surgeon--see what can be done!"

"Nothing!" replied Kate. "If all the surgeons in England and France were here, they could do nothing for thee. The hand of death is upon thee, man!--The gangrene has begun. Thou shalt never rise from that bed again--thou shalt never feel the fresh air more--thou art no longer thine own--thou art Death's inheritance--thy body to the earth, thy spirit to God that gave it, there to render an account of all that thou hast done on earth.--Think not I deceive thee!--Ask thine own heart Dost thou not feel that death is strong upon thee?"

"I do," groaned the man, covering his eyes with his hand. "Curses be upon my own folly for meddling with this scheme! Curses be upon that foul fiend, Dickon of Ashby, for bringing me into it, and leaving me here till it is too late--till the gangrene has begun!--Curses upon him!--and may the lowest pit of hell seize him for his villany!"

"Spare your curses," said Kate, "they can only bring down fresh ones upon your own head. Think upon yourself now, poor wretch!--think whether, even at this last hour, you may not yet do something to turn away the coming anger of God!"

"God!" cried the man--"shall I see God?--God who knows all things--who has beheld all I have done--who was near when--Oh! that is terrible--that is terrible, indeed!"

"It is terrible, but true," replied Kate; "but there is hope, if thou wilt seek it."

"Hope!" exclaimed the man, mistaking her--"hope! Did you not tell me I must die?"

"Ay, your body," replied Kate, "'tis your soul that I would save. A thief obtained pardon on the cross. God's mercy may be sued for till the last."

"But how--how?" cried he, "I know naught of prayers and paternosters. 'Tis twenty years since, when a beardless stripling, I got absolution for stealing the King's game;--and what have I not done since? No, no, there is no hope! I must die as I have lived! God will not take off his curse for aught I can say now! If I could live, indeed, to undo what I have done--to fast, and pray, and do penance--then, in truth, there might be a chance."

"There is still hope," answered Kate--"thou hast still time to make a great atonement. Thou hast still time to save thy soul. God, as if by an especial mercy, has provided the means for you to cancel half your wickedness. I know all the tale: thou hast slain a poor old man, that never injured thee: but I tell thee that another is accused of his murder--an innocent man, who--"

"I know! I know!" cried Dighton, interrupting her, "'tis all his fiendish art!" And then, gazing in her face for a moment, he added, "but why talkest thou to me of repentance?--why preachest thou to me, girl, and dost not practise thine own preaching? Art not thou a sinner, too, as well as I am, ha?--and do not they tell us that the soft sins damn as surely as the rough ones? Why dost thou not repent and make atonement?"

"I do," said Kate, firmly; "at this very hour I am aiming at nought else. Thinkest thou that I love that man? I tell thee that I hate him--that I abhor the very sight of his shadow, as it darkens the door--that the touch of his very hand is an abomination. But I abide with him still to frustrate his dark deeds--to protect those that are innocent from his fiendish devices--to give him to the arm of justice--and then to lay my own head in the grave, in the hope of God's mercy."

"But who tells thee thou shalt find it?" asked Dighton.

"God's word," replied Kate, "and a good priest of the holy church, both tell me that, if, sincerely repenting, I do my best to make up for all that I have done amiss--if, without fear and favour, I labour to defend the innocent even at the expense of the guilty, I shall surely obtain mercy myself in another world, though I wring my own heart in this."

"Did a priest say so?" demanded Dighton, looking up, with a ray of hope breaking across his face--"send for that priest, good girl!--send for that priest!--quick! He may give me comfort!"

Kate paused for a moment, without reply, gazing down upon the ground, and then said, "'Twould be hard to keep thee from the only hope of forgiveness, yet----"

"Yet what?" exclaimed he, impatiently. "In God's name, woman, I adjure thee----"

"Wilt thou do what the priest bids thee do?" demanded Kate.

"Yes--yes!" cried he--"I will do all sorts of penance!"

"Even if he tells thee," continued Kate, "to make such a confession----"

"Ay, ay," said the man, "that's what I want--I want to confess."

"Nay, but," replied Kate Greenly, "not a mere confession to the ear of the priest, buried for ever under his vow, but such a confession as may save the innocent--as may bring the guilty to justice--as may declare who was the murderer, and who instigated the murder?"

"No," cried the man, "I will not betray Ellerby. As to Richard de Ashby, if I could put a stone upon his head to sink him deeper into hell, I would do it,--but I wont betray my comrade."

"Well, then," said Kate Greenly, "you must even die as you have lived.--I can do nothing for you."

"Get thee gone, then, harlot!" cried the man. "If thou art not a fiend, send me a priest!"

Kate Greenly's eye flashed for a moment at the coarse name he gave her, and her cheek burnt; but the next instant she cast down her gaze again, murmuring, "It is true!" Then turning to the wounded man, she said, "I mind not thy harsh words; but it is needless for me to seek a man of God, unless thou wilt promise to do what I know he will require before he gives thee absolution. I promised to let no one see thee at all. To send for any one I must break my promise, and I will not do so for no purpose. Wilt thou do what the priest tells thee, even if it be to make public confession of who did that deed?"

"No," cried the man, "I will not betray him! Get thee gone, if thou wilt!--Curses upon you all!"

Kate moved towards the door, but turned ere she went, and said, "I am in the chamber beneath! Think well what it is to go into the presence of God unrepenting and unabsolved--to meet all that thou hast injured, and all that thou hast slain, accusing thee at the high throne above, without the voice of a Saviour to plead for thee! Think of all this, I say; and if thy heart turn, and thou wilt resolve to do an act of atonement and repentance, strike on the ground with thy sword, it stands at thy bedhead; and I will come to thee with the best physician that thou cant now have. One that can cure the wounds of the spirit."

The man glared at her without reply, and Kate Greenly passed out, closing and locking the door. She paused at the stairhead, and clasped her hands, murmuring, "What shall I do?--He must not die without confession.--He must have consolation--Perhaps Father Mark might persuade him. But he will last till morning. 'Tis now near eight; I will wait awhile--solitude is a great convincer of man's heart." And, descending the stairs, she entered the room below.

Half an hour passed without the least sound, and Kate sat gazing into the fire, unable to occupy herself with any indifferent thing. The time seemed long; she began to fear that the murderer would remain obdurate, and she had risen, thinking it would be better to send for Father Mark at once. She had scarcely taken three steps towards the door, however, when there was a stroke or two upon the floor above, and then the clanging fall of some piece of metal, as if the heavy sword had dropped from the weak hands of the wounded man.

Kate ran up with a quick foot, descended again in a few minutes, and, ere half an hour was over, a venerable man, with silver hair, was sitting by the bed of death; and Kate Greenly kneeling with paper before her, writing down the tale of Dighton's guilt from his own lips.